


Crimson

by hubblegleeflower



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Buttonhole porn, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Victorian, Victorian Holmes and Watson, Watson just really, absolutely no fingering, involved at all, or rimming, really likes Sherlock's red buttonhole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:11:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4304523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well.” No point in denying it. He always knows.“It is a very handsome buttonhole, Holmes.”<br/>“Is it not?” He glances down at the lapel of his coat, which he has not removed since entering the flat. “I am quite pleased with it myself. It was a surprise when I got it back from the tailor, that he had repaired it with red instead of black, but I do quite like it. As do you,” he adds, when I continue to stare. “Watson, would you…?” He stops, unwontedly bashful.<br/>“Yes?” I do not know why I am whispering. I try again. “Yes, Holmes?” Better.<br/>“Would you like to touch it?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://elizabeth-twist.tumblr.com/post/123648465119/giveusakiss413-elizabeth-twist#notes) has a lot to answer for.
> 
> This is a response to the Victorian promo photo that got released last night at midnight to much flailing and squeeing from the fandom.

 

“Watson.” Holmes’ eyes are facing out, directly in front of him, as he sits in the chair, but I have a terrible premonition he’s been deducing me all the same. I face resolutely in the same direction, as I lean on the arm of his chair.

“Yes, Holmes?” There’s nothing for it.

“I can’t help but notice that you seem to be fascinated with my hole.”

 _Damn. How does he always know?_  I clear my throat, and glance at him. “I beg your pardon, Holmes. I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” I know precisely what he means.

“Don’t be coy, man. It’s plain for anyone to see. You’ve been contemplating it since we sat down. You are failing, even now, to raise your eyes to my face. Your fondness for my hole is unmistakable.”

“Well.” No point in denying it. He always knows.“It is a very handsome buttonhole, Holmes.”

“Is it not?” He glances down at the lapel of his coat, which he has not removed since entering the flat. “I am quite pleased with it myself. It was a surprise when I got it back from the tailor, that he had repaired it with red instead of black, but I do quite like it. As do you,” he adds, when I continue to stare.

There is a pause. Then: “Watson, would you…?” He stops, unwontedly bashful.

“Yes?” I do not know why I am whispering. I try again. “Yes, Holmes?” Better.

It is not like him to hesitate. Yet he does. Then he speaks. “Would you like to touch it?”

Touch it? Touch his lovely, neat, handsome, red hole? “Oh, _yes,_ Holmes. Yes. If I may. If you please.”

“By all means.”

I do not tarry, but scramble around upon my perch and turn to face him. He is still seated deep in his green leather chair, and he does not stir or shift himself. It is up to me.

I reach out my hand, and nearly overbalance into his lap. He looks at me disdainfully as I try to right myself. The chair is so deep that I cannot easily reach his shoulder, but the crimson threading is gleaming there, practically _winking_ at me, and an invitation to lay my hands on Holmes’ person is so rare. I cannot allow it to pass. _Ah. Of course._ If I set myself before him on my knees, I shall be able to reach it. I hasten to do so.

I settle myself between his knees and reach out my hand. My fingers are trembling slightly and I flex them a moment. I need control.

My hand steadies, and again I reach out, delicately and most carefully, towards the smooth stitches of his lapel. His eyes are intent on my fingers, unwavering, and when my fingertip is a mere breath away from his buttonhole, I – pause.

Holmes’ eyes flick to my face: _Don’t stop._ I draw a breath and close the distance.

I touch his coat, and he gasps. It is the lightest brush of my fingers on his outermost, least intimate layer of clothing, and though it is only the barest parting of his lips, the briefest intake of his breath, it is a gasp, and it is for me. _Oh, Holmes._

Now I am able to focus on his tidy, red opening in earnest, and I begin. With tiny strokes of my index finger, I trace the short, smooth lines of the stitching that adorns the rim of his buttonhole. The stitches are tight and even, clearly done with diligence by an expert hand. I stroke them lightly, swiftly, all the way around the opening, admiring the colour and the handiwork. My short, delicate touches turn longer as I stroke lengthwise over the opening, back and forth, feeling the place where the heavy fabric is slit, where a button could pass through. Not easily, though. The stitching is still so tight and new.

The tip of my finger presses into the crevice, letting the edges just part before withdrawing. Holmes lets out a breath of air, which flows over the skin of my face and raises gooseflesh up my arms inside my shirtsleeves.

I am beset by the need to trace the cleft more deeply. My thumb moves in, stroking the aperture, feeling the texture of the thread that lines it. The seam is so trim and orderly. _Beautiful_ , I think. Perhaps I say it aloud, for Holmes draws a swift breath. I do not look up.

With my thumb pressing against the opening, I crook my finger to the other side of the lapel, and allow the pads of my thumb and forefinger to meet through the hole. It is my own skin I am feeling, nothing more, but the sensation, the delicious stroking of nerve endings through the rough fabric of his coat, sends a jolt of electricity through my body.

I risk a glance at his face. Holmes’ eyes are fixed on my fingers, his mouth is open, and he is issuing small, panting breaths, almost silent. When my fingers meet through the hole, easing it open, his breath catches and his eyelids flutter, but he does not look away.

“Watson.” His voice is a whisper.

“Yes, Holmes?” Mine is a growl.

“Your… your mouth. Would you…?”

A shocked thrill runs through me and I raise my eyes to his. I know my mouth is open, most indecorously. I know my desire is making my eyelids heavy, making it hard to look at him, making itself plain to him, impossible to miss, but I don’t care. There is an answering heaviness in his eyes, and that is all I require. “ _Yes_ , Holmes.”

I raise myself up on my knees, and place my hands on the leather-clad armrests, framing him. It would never do for my body to rest upon his, of course, and so my arms must take my weight if I am to fulfill his request.

I bring my face down towards the collar of his coat, letting my breath ghost across his throat as I pass by. It is terribly daring of me, but he shivers and releases a voiceless “ _Ah”_ as I pass, and I am rewarded for my boldness. There is his red buttonhole now, before my face, and I let my eyes roam over the expert work, the stitches pulled so smooth and tight. I close my eyes and _nuzzle_ it with my nose, so gently, and finally, finally, I allow my dry lips to brush over the textured surface of the seam. I pass my mouth over it once, twice, my head working side to side, increasing the pressure but maintaining the speed. I find the tiny ridges of thread against my lips to be so desperately moving.

“ _Oh,_ Watson. Yes. Just like that.” His eyes are nearly closed but I know those glittering irises are watching every move I make, and his blazing intellect is noticing everything I do. It is almost unbearable, the pleasure of being his sole focus, and I hardly know what I am doing, drunk as I am on his attention.

I am not thinking. I must be mad. I must be, because in another moment, my lips part and my tongue darts out, unbidden, and before I can come to myself, I have touched the rim of red stitching _with my tongue_ , and oh, god, it is so exquisite that I let out a moan, and who is this man I’ve become?

Holmes cries out. My tongue meets his buttonhole and he shouts aloud. Holmes, who is always in control. “Watson!” His tone is desperate. “Watson! Your _tongue._ What are you doing?”

Oh, god, what have I done? “Holmes! Holmes, forgive me! I know not… Oh, I have marred it, Holmes!” There is a spot of wet on the perfect seam. It is my fault, mine. Oh, god. “I must – Holmes, please allow me to…” He nods, still distressed, discomposed, but giving permission. Perhaps I can begin to make amends. I can only try.

I am back on my knees now. I need my arms if I am to erase the evidence of my base behaviour. I pull my handkerchief from my breast pocket and apply it to the spot. I use all the care and delicacy I so recently abandoned, using just the smallest corner of my handkerchief to dab at the offending dark patch on an otherwise pristine red rim. It is not coming out. _It is not coming out._ I press harder. I am not getting at it properly.

"Holmes, I must - " I hardly know what I am doing. In my agony, I know I must be making my transgression worse and worse, but I am powerless to stop. I feed the red handkerchief through the red opening and desperately draw it back and forth through the hole.

 _Oh._ It is so beautiful I almost forget the gravity of my error. I am dimly aware of Holmes’ voice, gasping, calling my name as I scour the red rim of his hole with the crimson silk of my handkerchief, but all I can think about is obliterating the mark of my thoughtlessness, and the bliss of touching him, knowing that I have abandoned all propriety beyond all hope of recall. _Oh, dear god._ “Holmes.” I am babbling. “Holmes, I am desolate. Forgive me.”

“Watson.” I hear, but I am too distraught to respond. I am still trying. “Watson, please. Watson.” He raises his hands. He raises his hands and _takes my hands in his._ He takes my hands. I stare at the place where his hands are holding mine, stilling them. _His hands are holding mine._ Slowly, I subside. _His hands._ Inside his hands, my hands go still. I still cannot meet his eyes.

“Watson. My dear Watson.”

“Holmes. Please forgive me. I was so wrong. I was mad. Forgive me, it was my own madness, and I have marked it.”

“Watson,” His voice is firm, his earlier confusion vanished. I listen. I will always listen to that voice. “My dear, there is nothing to forgive. The madness – it is not only yours." I stare at him, amazed. _It is not only mine._ But he is still speaking. "And Watson…” He smiles. He smiles at me. “Watson, I shall be glad to wear your mark.”

At last I understand. It is always thus, with his great mind and my ordinary one. It takes some time before I grasp his meaning, but now I do. I can face him now, too overcome to smile, but gazing, gazing deep into his eyes, unabashed for once. I rock back upon my heels, my hands still clasped in his, and help him to his feet. Gently, I grasp the lapels of his coat and slip it off his shoulders.

We are oddly cordial: “Shall I hang this for you, Holmes?” and “Thank you, Watson.” I reach around him to take his coat, and feel the warmth of his body, smell his scent.

He settles back into his armchair, facing again directly in front of him, without a glance at me. I return to my accustomed place on the arm of his chair, only this time, this time is suddenly different. He allows his arm to press against the length of my thigh and the heat of it dizzies me. He does not look at me, but I feel his attention. I feel it. The pride I feel in his regard lifts my head and straightens my spine. This is the one place in the world where I belong.

I shall be honoured to be his man. _He shall be glad to wear my mark._  

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so there's only a little bit of hanky... but a lot of hanky panky! (get it?)  
> Visit me on [Tumblr](http://hubblegleeflower.tumblr.com/) if you like that sort of thing. Talk to me if you want, I like that.


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